


Cracked

by Chrisio



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Extended Scene, Fighting, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'm so sorry boys, Panic Attacks, Slightly - Freeform, This is not happy at all, maybe?????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 05:10:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14301495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrisio/pseuds/Chrisio
Summary: The kids around him stir in agitation. As Davey turns his head, he just barely manages to catch a glimpse of Les' bowler hat bobbing through the crowd before it disappears from view. A weight of dread settles in Davey's chest. He'll have to talk to Les, later, about this. There's bound to be questions -- Les is completely enamored with the guy. He'll be wondering why Jack said all that stuff. And honestly, Davey doesn't know if he has the heart to tell the truth.Or maybe he won't get the chance, seeing as Les has beat him to it once again.Slipping out from between the older kids, Les comes up behind Jack and reaches up to tap him on the shoulder. Whether it's because he was startled, he was expecting a fight, or something else, Jack flinches. From across the stage, Davey watches as Jack whirls around, his hand already moving. Time almost seems to slow down as Jack backhands Les across the face, sending the younger boy stumbling to his knees with a cry of pain.Davey freezes as a feeling of cold washes down his body.





	Cracked

**Author's Note:**

> Well this has been sitting in my drafts for a while. Began working on it again and guess what?? ~3000 words in two days. Who woulda thought.
> 
> Title comes from "Cracked" by Pentatonix
> 
> This is not happy at all. Warnings for fighting and panic attacks (it just kind of happened)

This isn't going to work.

_This isn't going to work._

Internally panicking, Davey looks around at the crowd of newsies surrounding him. Most, if not all, of the boroughs showed up, it looks like. That's reassuring -- but what isn't reassuring is the distinct lack of a certain someone. From his spot center-stage, Davey can see the signs representing the neighborhoods and see the unfamiliar faces standing underneath them...but he can't see Jack. Words fly out of his mouth as he stalls for time, and so far, he isn't doing half-bad. But he doesn't know how long he can keep this up. They're not here for him -- they're here for Jack,  _who apparently isn't here yet._

Where could he be?? He knows this is a big deal -- and he had promised to be here on time ( _"Early, even!"_ ) after Davey had pressed him about it.

Movement registers at the corner of his eye, but he dismisses it. The rally's only just started -- there's bound to be stragglers slipping in a little late. Or maybe...not. As he turns to address the other side of the theatre, someone in the crowd slides into the front before detaching themselves from the mass of kids. Davey turns his head to look at who's approaching him, and at the sight of Jack striding out of the shadows backstage, eyes glinting and jaw set in a determined line, the knot of tension in his chest releases. He made it. Thank goodness.

 _It's about time_ , he thinks with a small spike of irritation.

Davey voluntarily cedes the stage to his friend, stepping back toward the curtains to listen. This is it! They'd worked hard in the past day or so to figure out what Jack was going to say exactly -- and now, they'll finally see if their work will pay off. In front of him, Jack visibly surveys the newsies waiting expectantly. After inhaling deeply, he opens his mouth to talk...and the relief in Davey's chest dies with every word that comes out.

_This isn't what they'd practiced._

"-Now, I have spoken with Pulitzer. And he's given me his word," Jack pauses as the newsies' shouts of indignation grow. "-that if we stop the strike-"

 _Stop the strike?_  Davey knew that Jack was going to visit Pulitzer -- it was Davey's suggestion, after all. But stop the strike, completely? Based on Pulitzer's  _word_?! What good was  _that_  worth? What did Pulitzer say in order to get Jack to completely reverse his stance?

Caught up in his own thoughts, Davey misses the rest of Jack's speech. It must be over, though, with the amount of clamoring going on. As he tunes back in to his surroundings, he sees Spot stride forward, shoving Jack roughly toward the curtains of the other wing. Jack stumbles back, but quickly regains his balance. He turns...and runs straight into an older gentleman stepping out of the shadows. Who is he? How long had he been there? Davey hadn't noticed him before, but now that he'd stepped further out into the light, it's easy to see the way Jack stiffens at the sight of him. Davey's vision is blocked by Jack himself, but he can make out the motions of something being held out, followed by whatever it is being roughly snatched out of the gentleman's hand. The newsies nearest to the pair let out a cry of outrage, and as Jack turns to look over his shoulder, Davey can see a thick envelope clenched in his fist.

...oh.

_Oh._

So that's what Pulitzer had said.

The cold bite of betrayal stabs him in the gut. Of all things Davey had prepared for -- losing his job, getting dragged to the Refuge, Brooklyn and the other boroughs deciding it wasn't worth the bother -- Jack defecting wasn't one of them. He hadn't thought their brazen leader would be the one to be swayed. Sure, maybe he expected one or two of the Manhattan boys to bow out, even -- being beaten up tended to change minds -- but even in that scenario, he never would have pictured Jack. Jack was a constant, and without that component Davey's left reeling as he searches for answers.

"Traitor!"

The call rings out from the mass of kids. Around the theatre, the murmuring among the newsies picks up as they crane their heads, trying to identify the accuser. It's impossible to tell who yelled -- but after the first shout, the rest are emboldened to add their own.

"He's a scab!"

"You're a sellout, Jack!"

The kids around him stir in agitation. As Davey turns his head, he just barely manages to catch a glimpse of Les' bowler hat bobbing through the crowd before it disappears from view. A weight of dread settles in Davey's chest. He'll have to talk to Les, later, about this. There's bound to be questions -- Les is completely enamored with the guy. He'll be wondering why Jack said all that stuff. And honestly, Davey doesn't know if he has the heart to tell the truth.

Or maybe he won't get the chance, seeing as Les has beat him to it once again.

Slipping out from between the older kids, Les comes up behind Jack and reaches up to tap him on the shoulder. Whether it's because he was startled, he was expecting a fight, or something else, Jack flinches. From across the stage, Davey watches as Jack whirls around, his hand already moving. Time almost seems to slow down as Jack backhands Les across the face, sending the younger boy stumbling to his knees with a cry of pain.

Davey freezes as a feeling of cold washes down his body.

Jack had hit Les.  

The memory is burned into his mind, playing over and over. Les gets knocked down two, three, four times over. Distantly, Davey registers his heart beating a bit faster and his fists clenching by his sides.

Jack had  _hurt_  Les.  

He faintly sees Jack stiffen, eyes widening as he realizes what he's done. Jack almost seems to hesitate before scrambling forward, bending down and extending his hand out. A last-ditch apology, that's what it is. That's the last thing Davey remembers seeing before his vision blurs and floods a bright, dangerous red.

_Jack fucked up. **B**_ **_ad._ **

Davey must have decided to move at some point, though he doesn't remember it. He has to have moved. Because instead of being on the far side of the stage by the curtains, suddenly he's plowing straight through the mass of kids, barrelling right toward Jack. As he pushes forward, newsboys scramble to move out of his way. Soon his path is relatively clear, and Davey finds that he doesn't even have to think about what he's doing -- his body just moves automatically. He and Jack lock eyes for a moment, the tension palpable. Jack opens his mouth to speak, but Davey doesn't give him a chance. He closes the short distance left between them, and, not even hesitating, grabs Jack by the shirt collar. Tugging him forward, their eyes meet for a split-second more before Davey pulls his fist back and decks Jack cleanly across the face.

After that, it's chaos.

There's shouts as people move, either rushing forward or pushing each other out of the way. Davey doesn't pay attention to them, though -- instead, he roughly shoves Jack down while he's off-balance. Jack goes tumbling to the floor, and before he knows it Davey is on the ground too, straddling Jack's body with his thighs. There's barely any time for Jack to recover before Davey grabs his shirt collar again, hauling him closer before his fist smashes back into his face. He pulls back for another punch, but as Davey's arm comes down Jack ducks his head out of the way, grabbing his moving arm and tugging so Davey goes sprawling onto his stomach. Quickly flipping over, Davey scrambles to his hands and knees, grabbing Jack's ankle as he tries to roll onto his feet. Jack crashes onto his front, and suddenly both of them are rolling around the stage, wrestling to try and gain the upper hand.

Davey may be bigger, but years of fighting for both play and survival have made Jack a tough competitor to beat. Something smashes into Davey's eye, causing his grip to loosen as he reels back.  Suddenly, the breath is knocked out of him as his back slams into the floor. He tries pushing himself up, but a weight landing on his chest forces him back down. In an almost-mirror of how they began, Jack's hands are bunched in the collar of Davey's shirt, their weight almost iron-like with how they keep him down. "Easy, Dave!" Jack says, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Davey doesn't answer. Instead, he levels a glare of pure malice at the Manhattan leader before trying to push himself up. Instantly, one of Jack's hands fly up behind his head, already balled into a fist.  _"Dave-"_  he warns, but Davey doesn't care. He lunges toward Jack as best as he can, and Jack's hand swings before crashing into his cheekbone. Davey's vision explodes into stars, but he keeps struggling as voices call out somewhere off to the side. Footsteps clomp onto the wood next to them, and suddenly he can breathe easier.

Oh, thank  _God_.

With Jack's weight off of him, Davey shakes his head, trying to simultaneously blink his vision back and locate where Jack went. After a moment or two, his vision has cleared up enough for him to see Jack being pulled away by Albert and Mush -- the former pushing him back, the latter pinning the Manhattan leader's arms behind him. 

Suddenly there's hands grabbing at him, too. Startled, Davey tries wrenching out of their grasp. There's too many, though, and Davey is dragged onto his feet, restrained by- hell, he doesn't even know  _who_. He doesn't even check. All he sees -- all he cares about -- is Jack standing in front of him. At the sight, Davey jerks forward -- but whoever's holding his arms grips tighter, causing him to stop short in his tracks. Suddenly Race flies between them, arms splayed wide, creating a physical barrier between the two of them. His mouth moves, but Davey isn't listening -- he isn't even sure he could hear Race if he tried. Everything is a blur -- sounds, sights. Everything is a blur except Jack. Davey strains against whoever's holding him back, but the grip on his arms holds strong.

"-vey, Davey, ya gotta calm down, ya gotta stop -- Dave,  _stop-_ "

"Let me  _GO!_ " Davey snaps, shaking his head.

"We  _can't_  Dave, you're goin' crazy-"

"I don't  _care_ , Race!" he snarls. His eyes switch to his friend's face for a split-second before snapping back to Jack. He was just standing there, catching his breath, apparently conversing with Albert since at times he either shook or nodded his head. As Davey watches, Jack shakes his head one last time, and Albert peers over his shoulder to Mush. Mush must release Jack's arms, because Romeo, who had been skirting around the edges of the inner crowd, slowly approaches, holding out the cap that Jack had lost in the fight. Jack takes it and settles it on his head -- yep, Mush had let go of him -- and then Albert is in the way again _,_ blocking Davey's view.

The next time a big enough gap clears for Davey to look through, he can see Jack's head looking over his shoulder. Their eyes meet, and each freezes as they stare the other down. Jack's eyes are full of...something. Either Davey's too mad to tell, or Jack's holding it back, because there's something in those eyes before Jack ducks his head. Albert plants a heavy hand on his shoulders, and soon the pair are making their way offstage and toward the exit doors. Newsies clear out of the path in front of them, and it isn't long before they reach the end of the aisle. Albert's hand slips off of his friend's shoulders, and from the stage Davey can see Jack give one final glance back before slinking behind the seats and out of sight.

Coward.

_Traitor._

The palms of his hands sting, and the only other thing Davey is aware of (besides the throng of kids just barely pulling order back together) is the bite of his fingernails against his skin. He unclenches his hands, and suddenly blood starts pumping its way through once again. Were they really going to do this? Were they  _really_  just going to let Jack walk away so easily after what he did?! He surges forward, and the hold on his arms just barely manages to keep him back. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Race jerk his head to the side. "Get 'im to the back," he says, and next thing Davey knows he's being pulled off to the side. His feet stumble for balance, for a grip on the smooth floor, for any leverage that would keep him in place, but his captor is stronger. He's dragged between the crowds of kids to behind the stage, back to where the workers build the sets for performances.

"Let me go!" he snarls, digging in his heels, pushing back, doing anything he can think of to try and get free. The person holding him sighs, though it's broken from the effort put fighting to move him forward.

"I can't, Davey," the newsie's voice grunts. That's all the communication they manage as Davey is dragged further along backstage. Soon enough, he's pushed into a dark room. He only has a second to realize his arms are free before the lights flick on, blinding him. As he blinks to adjust his vision, Davey looks around, recognizing one of the dressing rooms for the actors using the theatre. Turning his head toward the doorway reveals that the one who manhandled him all the way back here was nobody other than Specs. He stands in the doorway, staring at Davey with an unreadable expression on his face. Scowling, Davey straightens up and marches straight for the door, trying to slip past. Specs moves with him, blocking him completely. He tries again, and once more, Specs moves with him. Thinking quickly, Davey tries feigning one way and then going the other, but arms bolt out and snag him, pushing him further back into the room. Efforts foiled, Davey can't help but let out an irritated huff.

"Let me  _out_  of here, Specs!" He growls. Taking a few steps forward, he tries sidestepping around Specs again, only to be pushed back into the middle of the room. While Davey levels a glare at him, Specs just sighs and crosses his arms.

"Y'can't go out there, Dave," he says calmly, earnestly. The hair on the back of Davey's neck raises in agitation, and he groans.

"Come  _on_ , I gotta get out there! I gotta-" Suddenly his blood runs cold as he realizes-- "I gotta find Les!" His heart skips a beat, and he can feel his breath hitch. His frustration and irritation melt away into fear, and Davey feels dread lodge in his chest. No.  _No_ , not here. Not  _now_. He shakes away the tears that begin to prick at his eyes. "I gotta find Les, Specs, you  _saw_  him go down. He's gonna be scared, he's gonna- I gotta-" Suddenly he's breathless, feeling like the air got punched out of his stomach. His vision begins to spin, and he finds himself stumbling to the side. Something runs into his leg, and he automatically grips onto it for balance.

Les. Oh  _God._

_Les!_

Where did he go?? He didn't know where Les went. He didn't see after he got knocked down. Was he okay? Oh God, Davey didn't even know if Les was okay. He'd just gone straight for Jack and then the room had exploded after that first punch. Les was probably terrified, probably either ran off to hide or was trying to find Davey-- Oh  _God_ , he should have gone for Les first, why didn't he go to Les first?!? He didn't even know where Les  _was_ , was he with another newsie, did he run out of the theatre  _was he okay?? Was he trying to find Davey while Davey was stuck in here and couldn't look for him--_

A hand forces his chin up, and suddenly Davey finds himself staring directly into Specs' eyes. "Breathe, Davey," the other newsie instructs. Davey's mind scrambles a moment, but as a heavy hand plants itself down on his shoulder, something manages to click. He inhales a respectable breath through his nose, flooding his body with much-needed air. As Davey struggles to get his breathing back to normal, Specs moves from holding Davey's chin to holding his face with both hands. "That's good," he coaches, voice neutral. "Keep breathin'. You're doin' good." Davey manages a jerky nod, closing his eyes as he tries to focus his scattered and racing thoughts.

It's hard -- it feels like he's trying to scoop up a bunch of marbles while his hands are already full. It felt like his thoughts -- the marbles -- kept slipping away no matter what he tried or did to keep them together. After a few moments focusing on his breathing, though, paying attention to the way his chest expands as it inhales, noting the texture of whatever he was leaning against, feeling the heat of Specs' hands against his cheeks -- Davey sighs deeply one last time before opening his eyes. In front of him, Specs still stands, and this time Davey can note the worry creasing along his eyebrows and the corners of his eyes, can see the concern in Specs' eyes reflect through the lens of his glasses.

"You with me?"

He hesitates, but nods after a moment.

Specs sags slightly, some of the tension running off of his shoulders. "Alright, good." He pauses for a moment, uncertainty flashing across his face before it melts away again. "You good?"

Davey hesitates, giving a small shake of his head before shrugging. Specs releases a sigh, but he doesn't move away -- an action that Davey is grateful for. "Okay," is all he murmurs. Suddenly Specs blinks, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. A thumb rubs against Davey's cheek, and Specs moves his hand down to wipe it against his pants leg. "It's okay, Dave," he murmurs, and with a start, Davey realizes there's tears leaking out from his eyes.

He didn't even realize he started crying.

Pulling away from Specs' hold, Davey sniffles, roughly wiping the tears off his face with his sleeve. "'M fine," he mumbles, though obviously nothing about him is fine at the moment. But Specs, bless him, doesn't say anything to refute. Instead he just hums, and the meager conversation falls flat. Silence stretches between moments, dragging time on for longer than it probably was. 

After maybe a few minutes, Davey turns his head back toward his friend.  "Can I  _please_  go out and look for him?" he asks. From his perch, Specs remains unmoved, sympathy and pity evident in his eyes.

Davey isn't sure if he hates that look or if he's thankful for it.

"Do you really wanna go out and face the guys looking like that?" the other newsie points out gently. Davey just stares for a moment before turning his face away. No. No, he didn't -- he didn't want to face the Manhattan boys after what just happened, let alone all the other boroughs. And especially not if he's just been crying. They're sharp -- they'd be able to tell even if Davey takes time to calm himself down. And he barely has enough dignity to hold onto as it is, now.

Well, there's his answer.

He sighs, construing as much to his companion before rubbing at his eyes. Right. Okay. He's stuck here -- for now, at the very least. He's stuck in this tiny room and can't go out to look. But he can't just sit here. He's too wracked with nerves, too fidgety to sit still and wait. Davey tries tapping his fingers or bouncing his leg, but both work for all of 30 seconds before he huffs, the action too miniscule to be of any help. After a while, he finally springs to his feet, running his fingers through his hair as he strides to the other side of the room. Spinning on his heel, he walks back the way he came before turning around once more.

This is hell. This is absolute, one-hundred-percent, hell.

At least, he might have found something to ease the nerves that practically radiate off of him. Pacing doesn't stop his fingers from fiddling with the hem of his clothes, and it doesn't stop the worry from curdling in his stomach, but at least he's moving. At least he's not just standing there.

So he waits, trudging back and forth so many times he's surprised he hasn't worn a track in the thin carpeting.

"Ya don't gotta worry about him, ya know."

The voice is unexpected. Davey startles, his head snapping over to Specs. He opens his mouth to speak, but Specs manages to beat him before he gets a sound out. "Trust me. He'll be okay." He shrugs, squirming to find a more comfortable position to lean back against the wall. "I guarantee you there's at least four guys out there lookin' for him right now. He's gonna be okay -- we'll find him, Dave. Trust me."

 _He's right._  In the back of his head, Davey knows that Specs is right. Any Manhattan newsie who had seen that -- hell, maybe even a newsie from another borough, he doesn't know -- would have made it a primary goal to find Les and make sure he was okay. Like it or not, Les is a newsie himself, and by that definition alone it means he has an army of people out there right now who are sick as hell with worry for him. Somebody has to find him. Somebody is going to find him.

There's no way they wouldn't.

But Davey doesn't say that. Instead he hums, turning his head back down to the floor. Quiet returns, and the tension only grows more noticeable. The only sound that can be heard is the taps of Davey's shoes against the floor. It's starting to make him go nuts, quite honestly. The rally's still going on -- he can still hear the echoes of newsies in the distance. They're not a quiet bunch, after all, and after a show like that there's no way they didn't have plenty to discuss. 

God, what did they think of that? Would the other boroughs rescind their support now, after seeing a good fraction of the Manhattan strike leaders fighting between themselves? Would Manhattan be left to fend for itself again? They couldn't take that, not again.

He doesn't know.  _He doesn't know._  All he can do is worry -- so that's what he does.

He doesn't know how long it's been; despite the fact there's a clock on one of the far tables, it's small enough that he'd have to pause and squint to study the numbers. Right now, he simply doesn't have the patience. So instead, Davey paces. Seconds drag into minutes, which drag into forever, but still nothing changes. Specs waits and Davey paces, so absorbed in his mind his feet move automatically. In fact, he's so caught up in the sound of his own footsteps, he doesn't hear the others approaching from outside in the hallway. Suddenly there's a knock on the doorframe and the sound of feet shuffling quickly behind him.

"Davey!"

He doesn't even think. Davey's head snaps in the direction of Les' voice and he automatically turns, crouching down with his arms wide open. Seconds later he's almost knocked over as Les bowls into him, hugging him tightly. Davey reciprocates, and it doesn't take long before he feels his little brother shaking from repressed sniffles.

_Oh, no._

Instinct takes over, and soon he finds himself rubbing a hand in circles between Les' shoulders, mumbling nothing important to try and get him to stop crying. He looks up, sees Specs and JoJo murmuring together by the doorway. Specs is nodding, and when he glances over JoJo's shoulder toward the brothers, Davey looks away, feeling as though he got caught.

Les begins to hiccup, effectively focusing Davey's attention back to him. "Shhhhhh," Davey soothes. "Shhhhh, easy, Les, easy...it's me, it's okay. It's  _okay_. I'm right here, bud. I'm right here..." After a few more moments like this, Les' cries begin to die down. As the room grows quieter, Davey hums, weighing his options. Finally, wanting to get his primary concern off his chest, he asks, "You okay?" Les shakes his head, and Davey's heart plummets at the sound of his brother sucking in a ragged breath.

"J-Jack hit me, 'n.....'n then you'n'him started  _fightin_ ', a-and then you looked  _so mad...._ an' then I couldn't see ya no more, and everyone got in the way an' there was yellin' and _...._ you were gonna soak each other real good. I-...I thought you were gonna get hurt  _too_ , Davey, I didn't want'cha to get  _hurt_ -" he breaks down again, turning his head to sob back into Davey's vest.

Davey's hug just tightens again as he tries to console his brother. "Hey," he soothes. "Hey. Shhhh. Hey." It doesn't work, however, and Davey's stuck rubbing Les' back, shushing him helplessly, trying to get him to breathe between sobs. Finally, finally, his little brother's breath seems to hitch, cries tapering as he manages a stuttery sniffle. Davey takes that as a sign of improvement, humming encouragingly. "That's right, there we go. Can you do that again?"

The head against his chest nods, and thank God, if that isn't a good sign. "Alright, good. Breathe in, just like that -- there we go. You're doin' good, Les." They keep on like that, with Davey rubbing circles into his brother's back and Les shakily attempting to regulate his breathing. After a few minutes, Davey sighs. "You wanna look at me?" he asks softly, and to his relief, Les nods after a small hesitation. Davey leans back onto his heels, and then he's looking into the devastated face of his little brother, his face blotchy from crying and his eyes shiny with unshed tears. Tears prick at his own eyes again and -- no,  _no_  -- he forces them back down. Les doesn't need him crying right now, too. Les needs his big brother, and  _dammit_ , Davey isn't going to let him down for the second time tonight.

"Hey," he murmurs softly. Les sniffles, mouth wobbling, and Davey's heart breaks even further. "No, no -- it's okay, Les. It's alright. I'm right here, see? I'm right here. It's okay. I'm okay." He gives his brother's shoulders a tiny squeeze, attempting to reassure him. "I'm not hurt, buddy. I'm okay. There's nothin' to be scared about."

For a moment, Les stares at him with a watery frown. Finally, his eyebrows bunch together as he cocks his head. "What's that?" He asks doubtfully, pointing at Davey's left eye.

"Oh, um-" Oops. In his need to prove he was alright, he had forgotten about the blow that Jack managed to land on him. "Th-that's just where his elbow knocked into me. He, uh, fell over and caught me on the way down. It doesn't hurt, don't worry. Besides, now we match, huh?" He smiles weakly, thumb brushing Les' face just under where Jack hit him. The mark was dark red, though it hadn't started to bruise yet, and if Davey's adrenaline hadn't worn off he would have bouldered his way out of this dressing room and tracked Jack down for round two. "You'll have somethin' to show the boys back at school. You know how they're always wrestling each other."

Les sniffles, nodding hesitantly. Good, he's agreeing now. Not-crying and agreeing, those are two very important milestones. Davey forces a small smile onto his face. "And besides, when you tell them how you got it fighting Joseph Pulitzer -- they won't believe it! They won't leave you alone, they'll keep askin' ya questions--"

Les' mouth presses together in a wobbly frown. "But I wasn't fightin' Pulitzer," he says. "Jack turned around 'n hit me."

"But you were at the rally," Davey points out. "Which means you  _were_  fighting Pulitzer, just...not in the way they'll think." His hands squeeze against his little brother's shoulders. "They don't need to know exactly  _how_  you got it. You just...don't tell them the whole truth. That make sense?"

Les shrugs. "I guess," he mumbles glumly, and Davey sighs. That'll have to do for now.

"Alright," he murmurs. They both fall quiet, and Davey finds himself with nothing left to say. He wants to say something -- he  _needs_  to say something. At a loss for words, he speaks the first thing at the front of his mind. "How ya doin' bud?"

Les just shrugs again in response. Something crosses his face, though, prompting Davey's eyebrows to furrow slightly. That look can't mean anything good. Turns out, he doesn't have to wait long. After another moment or two, Davey watches his little brother visibly hesitate.

"..Davey?"

Oh, that voice. That impossibly small voice. Davey's heart clenches. "Yeah?" he asks, voice soft.

"Can we go home?"

He blinks at the question before glancing over Les' shoulder. Specs' cautious gaze meets his own. It's understandable. Davey would be the same way, if one of the other newsies had gone off like that. For a moment, each newsboy regards the other, locked in stalemate. After a couple seconds, though, Davey turns his attention back to his brother, taking matters into own hands.

"Of course we can. That sounds like a great idea."

Squeezing his hands just a tiny bit tighter, Davey leans back onto his heels again. Les still looks absolutely devastated, but at this point it's more tired than anything else. His red-rimmed eyes stay trained on the ground, and Davey's heart clenches in pity. He brings his hand up to wipe some tears off his brother's face, but Les flinches back, and suddenly Davey's pity ignites into anger.

_Jack._

Forcing down his ire, Davey moves his hand back down instead, slipping it over Les' hand until their fingers link together. "C'mon, Les," he encourages softly. His little brother nods, stepping back to give Davey some space. For the first time in what's probably been too long, Davey stands upright. His legs protest, but he just ignores them. He wants to go home. He wants to get out of this room, out of this theatre -- away from the newsboys that could still be heard through the layers of walls. Specs straightens up as they approach, and this time Davey looks him directly in the eyes, silently challenging him to repeat his act from before.

"Feel free to tell Race we've gone home. See you tomorrow?" Though it's phrased as a question, Specs catches the tone lying underneath and gives a short nod.

"Yeah. See you tomorrow."

Davey gives a curt nod in reply before gently pulling Les through the door. They head out the back way, avoiding the lingering crowd up front. The halls are quiet, though, and soon Davey is holding open the back door for Les to step through. This is the same way Jack brought them in the first time, he realizes, when they were running for their lives from Snyder. The memory stings, though he isn't sure if it's bad or bittersweet.

The walk back home through the streets is quiet, with each brother wrapped up in his own thoughts. There's enough moonlight for them to be able to tell where they are, so Les essentially ends up taking the lead once they've gone a few blocks from the theatre. Davey lets him take the reins. It allows his mind to wander, at the very least, though he's careful to stay perceptive enough in case of trouble.

That morning at the delivery wagons, watching the newsies seethe over the price hike is the first thing that comes to mind. All that talk about striking, about seizing the day, and look where it got them: a friend arrested, a lot more bruises, and a leader, once bright-eyed and smart-mouthed, selling out as soon as things actually started to get serious, as soon as it started affecting more than just Manhattan.

Jack Kelly sure talked big for having nothing to stand behind him.

Residual anger glowers in Davey's chest. Jack. He can't believe he fell for it, what with barely knowing the guy at that point. Still...no, there was  _something_  there. He could have sworn it. That talk about sticking it to Pulitzer and Hearst...Jack had painted a future with words as well as he could with a brush. The strike had seemed brilliant, the idea shining brighter than the sun he claimed hung over Santa Fe's sky.

At the thought, Davey almost snorts.  _Santa Fe._  The city of Jack's dreams -- and the reason he had sold them out, more than likely. He had seen that envelope that Jack was given; it was surely more than enough money for a train ticket. Fine, then. Jack wanted to leave -- he'd been alluding to it for a while. But he couldn't have waited until after the strike?

Well, no. Once he thinks about it, the question isn't really that difficult to answer.

_"Our father taught us not to lie."_

_"Mine taught me not to starve."_

Living on the streets, kids had to be opportunists. So when offered the chance to live his fantasy, forget about the strike like it never happened, and have it paid for, to boot? Jack probably jumped at the chance.

The thought alone almost makes Davey sick.

Well, fine. They can have him. If Jack loves Santa Fe so much that he can't wait until the dust settles before splitting, then good riddance. They could probably use him more over there anyway -- all those fireside stories and all. Jack had plenty of stories to tell; this would probably be one of them.  _"Hey, wait'll you guys hear this. Back in New York-"_

God, he had been so  _stupid._

Their arrival home interrupts Davey's train of thought, and soon enough he finds himself trying to avoid his mother and sister, answering their questions as quickly as possible and trying to duck away to his room. Les' bruise is explained as someone getting too excited and accidentally clipping him as he passed behind, and Davey apparently had had to stop some bad blood between a Queens newsie and a Brooklyn boy. He doesn't know how well they buy it, but it stops any prying questions for now -- Sarah raises her eyebrow skeptically, while his mother just shakes her head with a sigh, treating Les' bruise and giving him a kiss on the forehead before sending them both off to bed.

As soon as the door closes behind them, Davey sags. He puts Les to bed right away -- the poor kid is dead on his feet, and he falls asleep almost instantly. Davey can't blame him. It's been a long night, after all. However, despite the fact that he's exhausted as well, Davey can't find it in him to lay down and close his eyes. He's too agitated, too full of nervous energy to lay still, but he can't get up and start pacing again for fear of waking Les. Instead, he settles for picking up the chair from his desk and carrying it over to the window. After setting it down quietly, he slides the glass open and sits down, leaning against the frame as he stares up at the sky and thinks.

The moon is bright tonight, he notes almost immediately. Maybe the light from it will keep him from falling asleep. Maybe he won't even go to sleep in the first place. Maybe he'll just stay up until the morning bell. It's a bad idea, he knows -- he'll be dead tired at the circulation gate tomorrow morning. What about the others? Will they be able to fall asleep tonight? After-...with a start, Davey realizes he doesn't even know what happened at the rally. Did they get anything done? There had to have been some sort of talk. He'll have to ask someone tomorrow. But maybe they'll be tired too, kept up in restlessness or excitement. Maybe the moon shining in through the windows will keep them up like it's keeping him awake. But as far as he knows, that's not a problem. Some of the newsies actually like nighttime better than daytime. Of course, nobody liked it as much as-

....as much as Jack.

...huh. Jack. Everything came back to Jack, now didn't it? The strike. The newsies. His brother. Everything comes back to Jack. Even the freaking night sky, Davey realizes with a start, can be traced back to Jack. Jack, who, when they have downtime between sales, tells stories about the big yellow moon hanging over the desert. Jack, telling stories about the stars and constellations that Davey learned about in school. Jack, who gazed up at the sky with the longing of a grounded songbird.

The prickle of residual anger in Davey's chest burns cold.

It's a good thing Santa Fe has that wide-open sky that Jack never shut up about. They'll need all the air they can get, the way Jack can spin words like they're nothing. At the thought, Davey snorts softly. Was that what this was to Jack? Nothing? Were they all just nothing to Jack? He had seemed so hopeful about the strike before...but now that he had jumped ship so easily, Davey isn't sure what he can think.

Well, then. If they're nothing to Jack, then at least Davey can wash his hands of the mess and say he wishes Jack the best. He hopes Jack enjoyed this little adventure. He hopes Jack enjoys his trip out to Santa Fe. And for the love of God, he hopes Jack finds his place out West. Because as far as he's concerned, Jack enjoying his life and being far, far away is a perfectly acceptable outcome from this disaster of a strike.

As far as Davey's concerned, he never wants to see Jack Kelly again.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm aware of what I've done. Don't worry, I cried multiple times while writing it.
> 
> Come yell at me on my Tumblr: [@Schmilliam](https://schmilliam.tumblr.com/)


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